


Of Broken Men and Angels

by PrinceNux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is only a bit ooc, Dean is so ooc that it pains me, I am so sorry, I am such fandom trash please punch me, I wrote it for a girlfriend and then we broke up, Like at least two or three years, M/M, My first Destiel fan fic, This is actually not that bad, This is pretty good and I am proud of younger me, Who woulda thought, oh boy, so here it is, this is so old, this whole thing is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceNux/pseuds/PrinceNux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the really cringey summary from my WattPad, so please accept my apology in advance:<br/>Dean Winchester needs to get his gay in check, and Castiel really needs to learn to fly.</p><p>Hahaha. That is so "edgy," and lame and shit, I wrote this piece of trash in 2014. Damn. </p><p>I swear to the gods that my writing has gotten so much better since then. I just want to post this because why the hell not, ya know.</p><p>I LIED! This work is not total shit. It's not shiny and chrome, per-say, but it's not totally mediocre, either!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of broken men and angels

Once upon a time, which is how all good stories should start, but only the fairy tale ones do.

There was a righteous man that was raised from perdition.

Raised from hell.

Because he deserved to be saved.

Even though he didn't realize, or, believe it.

And, there was an angel that dressed like a holy tax accountant.

He was the one that saved the righteous man.

There's a mark on the mans arm as proof.

In the shape of a hand print.

And, this righteous, self loathing, broken man, he saved the angel.

And the angel so loved the righteous man that he fell for him.

He lost his grace.

And, we can pretend that the angel just misplaced it, instead of having it ripped out, because, even a story as tragic as this one deserves a happy ending.

The End


	2. coping

Dean Winchester

He may drink a bit too much

the flask is more

than something temporary

and he may have

to pay with his

liver and kidneys

broken heart all bandaged up

but at least

the liquor

sweet burn

metallic

filling his throat

chest

and stomach

with flickering tongues

of flame

keep the demons at bay


	3. what's in a name

dean

dean’s middle name

is trigger happy

and his last name

is a bullet

to the head


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Castiel does when he manages to locate the Winchesters in their current run down place of residence, is go into the bathroom. Where he borrows Dean's tooth brush, much to the hunter's chagrin, and brushes his teeth until his gums bleed and his pouty lips are a mess of blood. Well, so is his mouth. But, it's the bloodied lips that make Deans heart hurt. And, god dammit, he doesn't know why. Maybe he hasn't consumed enough alcohol today. Yeah, that's it. It's the lack of a steady buzz to keep his head in the clouds for a few hours. It has to be the lack of alcohol. It's absolutely not the fact that seeing Cas hurt, seeing Cas hurt himself, seeing the blood staining those beautiful lips, drop kicks his stomach down into his boots and stomps on it.

“I need a drink,” Dean says, though it comes out sounding more like, I...I, uh, I n...need a drin....a drink.

Though, of course, he's going to deny it. The stuttering only tends to happen when he is beyond extremely shit faced.

Which usually means that he's hidden himself away at a back booth in a bar, or waited up until Sam fell asleep because the younger Winchester refuses to enable his brothers drinking habits. And the bitch face is just too much to handle when he can't even think about standing up without puking.

Once he's in the kitchen, the tears fill his eyes and fall into the glass of whiskey that he holds in his shaking hand.

Hearing the sniffling, Sam, who, until a few minutes ago was passed out on the couch, slinks into the kitchen and stands behind Dean. Loom, actually. Sam Winchester, in all his 6 foot however many inches tall glory, looms over his older brother, making him look childlike in comparison.

“What's up?” he asks groggily, voice rough and thick with the familiar, welcome clog of sleep.

And about a million other things that the youngest wants to say to the eldest, but doesn't know how to.

Mostly, what he wants to say, what he needs to tell, show, is that he is sorry. Even though he's already said it more times than he can count, he is never going to be able to say it enough times.

Looking up at him, Dean says around the rim of his shot glass, “Sammy, Cas is back. He's in the bathroom. And, man, he's a mess. There's blood, and I don't know what to do.”

In response, Sam pries his brothers fingers from the shot glass, downs the remaining alcohol, and shoves him, none too gently, in the direction of the bathroom.

'What you're going to do,” he orders gently, “is, you're going to clean him up, bathe him, bandage him up instead of letting him mojo his feathery ass back to 100% so he knows how much his disappearances hurt you. How they tear you apart and send you running for the bottle. But, most of all, Dean, you are going to love Cas. Because, what he needs is love. And a bath. He sorta smells.”

The lump in Dean's throat is just because his throat is dry. He's probably dehydrated. Nobody should live off a consistent liquid diet of coffee and alcohol. It's not healthy. But, that's the only reason there is a lump slowly closing off his air way. This is a thousand times worse than when that Bela bitch stole his baby. This isn't just hyperventilating. This is suffocating inside of himself, from the inside out.

Dammit. He needs a drink. Or ten.

Before he heads back to the bathroom, where he will try his hardest to put his angel -no, not his angel- to put Castiel back together again, Dean tentatively reaches out for the half empty whiskey bottle, hoping to take it with him for silent verbal support. But, Sam reaches out and slaps his hand away.

“Bitch,” he replies, nursing his stinging fingers as he stalks off towards the bathroom.

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, upending the bottle into the sink as Dean slams the door shut behind him.

The road to nowhere ends in your arms, Dean thinks, leaning against the door and watching his angel -no, not his angel- Cas spit blood into the sink. It's a painful sight, and he wishes that Sam hadn't confiscated his drink. He could really use the artificial courage right now.

In all seriousness though, if Dean, the eldest Winchester, were drunk enough, he would fuck Castiel into the wall. Cuts, bruises, and all. And he fucking hates himself for it. Because he needs the slow burn of alcohol in his stomach to justify his feelings. He needs an excuse, because how could an angel, holy tax accountant that he is, love a screw up like him?

Walking up behind Cas, Dean turns him around, and then pushes him down onto the edge of the bathtub.

When Cas tries to stand up, he pushes him back down, hands clamped firmly on his shoulders, gritting out between clenched teeth, “Sammy said no mojo-ing yourself back to 100%. You can get rid of the stubble and the dirt on your ridiculous trench coat, but I have been instructed to bathe and bandage you.”

Chewing on his beautifully plump bottom lip in a way that makes Dean want to nibble the angels ear lobe, Cas stands up, unsteady on his feet, and begins to shrug off his trench coat. Ridiculous trench coat, the eldest Winchester had called it, but, really, Dean was quite fond of the garment. It made Cas easy to find in a crowd of people. And, really, it was beautiful. Even if it did make him look like a holy tax accountant.

When he goes to start unbuttoning his shirt, Dean notices the way the angel can't quite seem to move the fingers on his right hand enough to get the button out of the little hole.

Sighing, and really wishing that he had had that drink, he stands up, and gently pushes Cas's arms down to his sides.

When the shorter -only by two inches- man goes to push him away, Dean only growls, “don't you fucking dare, Castiel. I will put your feathery butt in the hospital if I have to.”

Cas stops moving after Dean says this. And not because Dean could actually put him in the hospital. Because, well, he can't. If the demon blade doesn't work on an angel, not much else will. Sure, he does bleed like any other normal human, but, all of his pain receptors are pretty much dulled down to a slight throbbing pain. A constant throbbing pain, but slight none the less.

Working quickly, but gently, the taller man unbuttons the shirt, trying to hide the shocked breath that manages to worm its way up his throat when he is met with an expanse of bare skin.

There is no shirt at all underneath.

No. Fucking. Shirt.

On impulse, Dean plants a quick kiss on Cas's collar bone, before moving down to plant a kiss on his right nipple. Because, really, that nipple has always seemed just a bit perkier than the left one.

Of course, not that Dean has noticed, because he hasn't.

But, in all honesty, he feels a pleasant twinge of accomplishment when the little mound of skin hardens underneath the minute pressure of his lips.

Suddenly, realizing what he's just done, Dean stiffens and jumps to his feet. He considers throwing himself back against the door, but he doesn't want to hurt Cas's feelings. Or his back. And, besides, he's never been one for dramatics. He'll just internally kick the shit out of himself later, and drink until the feelings for Castiel, the angel, for christ sakes, that are swimming around behind his ribcage, drown.

Cas makes a contented little humming noise in the back of his throat, a blush creeping into his cheeks as Dean pulls off his trench coat, suit jacket, and finally, his white button up. He shivers at the sudden cold air in his bare skin. Though, really, the shiver is more one of fear, anticipation, of how Dean will react to the scar on his chest. And stomach. The gouges were quite big, and, though they healed fast, they sometimes still hurt.

For example, the way that Dean is looking at the large marking that extends to just above the waist line of his black slacks. The way that Dean is looking at it hurts.

Not because the look is one of disgust or pity.

No, it goes deeper than that.

The look in Dean's eye is not one of pity or anger. The look is one of blame. But, he is not blaming Castiel. No, Dean Winchester is blaming himself. Because, he hurt another person that he loved. Loves. He loves Cas, dammit. But, he hurt him. More than once. And there are scars left over from him being such a fuck up that kills things, mostly people, for a living. And it's all his fault. The scars on Cas's chest. The blood that he has shed countless times for him and his brother. Everything. It is his fault.

Choosing to pretend like nothing happened, Dean tosses the discarded shirts onto the toilet seat, before moving to unbutton Cas's black slacks. The angel stiffens when the hunters rough and calloused hands brush over his prominent hipbones. Not because it hurt, but, because, it feels good. The simplest of touches, the faint brush of kind fingers over his skin, sends pleasant shivers running up and down his spine.

When the taller man gets down on his knees to untie and slip off Cas's shoes, along with his socks, the angel almost cries.

The angel can count on the fingers of one hand how many times someone has been this nice, this gentle, this caring, towards him. And, deep down, he knows that he doesn't deserve it. But, Dean, despite his drinking, sarcastic comments, and overall gruff attitude, has been very kind to him. He's always been gentle. Even when he's gotten angry, it's only because he cares, or he's been hurt by the angels actions. Even the anger is swaddled in kindness, caring, and tears. These three, seemingly simple things, stab into his guts like razor wire and knives.

Adding the slacks, shoes, and socks to the pile of clothing, Dean pushes Cas back down onto the edge of the bathtub, and turns on the water. After making sure that it's not too hot, and not too cold, he turns to the angel and says gruffly, “get in. You must be freezing, and the water's warm.”

When he hesitates, only dipping a toe into the water, the hunter chuckles, and, wrapping his arms around Cas's somewhat thin waist, literally picks him up and sets him gently in the bathtub.

“You're right,” he says quietly, “the water is warm.”

“Close your eyes,” Dean replies, shrugging off his flannel and cupping his hands under the water running from the faucet.

Cas obeys, only slightly confused as to what is going on. Not that he doesn't know what bathing is. It's just that, he never really paid attention to the fact that, after Sam and Dean Winchester showered, they certainly looked better. What he did pay attention to, however, was how clean Dean smelled. How beautiful, how handsome, he looked without the blood caking his clothes and hands and face. And, how nice he smelled. How wonderful. He smelled like home. Like Castiel's home.

Opening his hands, Dean allows the water to fall onto Cas's hair, soaking it instantly.

He runs his fingers through the angels hair for a few silent minutes, pretending not to notice, or enjoy, the way that Cas leans into his hands, the back of his head resting right up under his ribs, leaving a wet spot on his shirt.

When the angels dark brown locks are sufficiently soaked, he rubs shampoo on his hands, before going to work on the somewhat greasy hair of Castiel.

Half way through spiking his hair up into ridiculous little spikes, Dean hears what sounds like a whimper.

Looking down at Cas, who is sitting cross legged in the water, which is up to his stomach, head hanging down, he realizes that the pitiful sound came from him.

But, no, that isn't right. Castiel, angel of the lord, is not to be pitted. Nothing about him is pitiful. Except for that noise. It's half way between and whimper and a choked back cry of pain.

And the sound, so simple, so human, rips Dean's heart out of his chest.

“Shit,” he says, “did I get shampoo in your eyes?”

Cas shakes his head, mumbling, “of course not, Dean. It's just...that nobody else has ever done something this nice for me before.”

“I'm washing your hair, Cas, it's not like I'm curing cancer.”

Dean mentally kicks himself for replying with something so insincere and casual, but then chuckles when a small smile lifts up the corner of Cas's mouth.

Only just resisting the urge to pull Cas's head back and ki.....what? No. No urge. Nope. No no no.

Pulling off his tee shirt, Dean hands it to Cas, saying, “here, put this over your eyes. I gotta wash the shampoo out of your hair.”

Once he is finished washing out the shampoo, and little clumps if bubbles are floating around on the surface of the water, Dean sits down on the edge of the bathtub and brushes Cas's hair out if his face.

Cas looks up at him, sky blue eyes sparkling with a smile.

But, the smile quickly turns into a frown when his wings literally burst forth from his back, hitting Dean in the face and knocking him backwards into the still pleasantly warm bath water.

The hunter sits up, legs hanging over the edge of the bathtub, saying cheekily, “damn, Cas. If you wanted me to strip down and bathe with you, all you had to do was ask.”

Feeling the warmth creep up his neck and into his face, he immediately folds his wings into a cocoon around himself, attempting to hide the blush. Completely undeterred by this little game of hide and seek, Dean squirms his way under the covering of Cas's wings and lays back against his chest.

“I guess it's too late to offer to wash your back, huh?” he asks, and no, that is not disappointment that is clouding his voice. Nope nope nope. Not happening.

Even though Castiel does have a very nice back, Dean doubts very much that he wants any old human soaping him up and scrubbing him down.

And, boy, does that sound dirty.

When the bath water grows cold, and Dean starts to shiver from what seems to be the sudden drop in temperature, he climbs out of the bathtub and offers a hand to Cas to help him out as well.

Cas stands up, taking the offered hand, wings folded tightly against his back, the tips of the feathers mere inches away from touching the floor.

When Cas tries to go straight for the pile of clothes on top of the toilet seat, Dean grabs his shoulder and spins him around so that they're almost nose to nose. Chest to chest. And almost crotch to.....no. Dean is not going to think about that. He is not going to think about how nice Cas's thighs are. How he wants to rub circles into his beautiful, so close to jutting, hipbones. And he is definitely not going to think about how he would like to trace the deep, long scars covering Castiels chest with his tongue. Followed by his lips. And then his teeth.

“Don't you dare put those back on,” Dean says. “Sammy and I are gonna lend you some proper pajamas so you don't hang out all night in your trench coat and watch us while we sleep.”

Not that Dean doesn't enjoy having an angel perched, both metaphorically and literally, at the end of his bed, watching over him, protecting him, while he sleeps.

When Cas, once again, goes for the clothes, Dean grumbles in what could almost be described as an endearing impatience, and wraps his arms around Cas's waist for the second time. Literally picking him up and shouldering the door to the bathroom open, Dean walks out into the hotel room. On instinct, the angels wings wrap around the hunters back, trailing down his thighs like twin tails.

Setting him down on a bed, Dean goes to rummage through his bag and comes back with a roll of bandages, along with a wickedly sharp looking needle, and a spool of thread.

Cas gulps, stomach tightening up into knots that are almost unbearably painful. Though he doesn't know why. For a few brief moments, a wave of guilt crashes into him at the damage that he has done to Jimmy Novak's body. But then, he remembers that Jimmy is dead.

This is his body now. And he should really start taking better care of it.

Not that he minds the Winchesters taking care of him. Stitching and bandaging up his wounds.

It's nice to have someone care enough about him to wash his hair and bathe him. Someone that cares enough to wash the dried blood from his clothes and skin. And somebody that cares enough not to get mad when he uses their tooth brush, and leaves it covered in blood.

“This is gonna hurt, Cas. You've got a pretty nasty cut on your arm, and one on your forehead. But, that seems to be it, you lucky bastard,” Deans says, then immediately hesitates when Cas goes to hide his left hand behind his back.

Biting into his lip hard enough to draw blood, Dean gently wraps an arm around Cas's wrist and pulls his hand out, cradling it in his own two hands.

“Man, that's not pretty,” Sam says, startling both of them when he leans down behind Dean to rest his chin on top of his older brothers head.

“Shut it, Sammy,” Dean says halfheartedly.

Moving around from behind Dean so that he can kneel in front of Cas, Sam takes the angels hand in his own, and gently prods the edges of the cut.

He jerks back, almost falling over, when Cas flinches and lets out a low whine.

“Dean, you're gonna have to hold him back while I stitch him up,” Sam says, then visibly gags when his brother drops his jeans and pulls off his shirt.

Smirking, Dean replies, “that's gonna cost you, Cas. I don't strip for just anybody.”

The angel quickly looks away, cursing the blush that rises in his cheeks, though his facial expression, as always, remains perfectly stoic.

Dean comes back over, wearing a clean pair of sweats, with a ball of clothes under his arm.

And the fact that he is not wearing a shirt has nobody hot and bothered at all. Least of all Sam, because ew. Brothers.

He climbs onto the bed, and worms his way over to where Cas is sitting. Pulling him back from the edge, he wraps long, scarred arms around the young mans waist, and pulls him tight against his bare chest.

Then, Dean jolts back, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Shit, Cas,” he mumbles, “am I crushing your wings?”

“They're gone, Dean,” Cas replies reassuringly, rigid shoulders relaxing when the hunter, once again, wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer than last time.

And, Cas thinks, even if you were crushing them, Dean, I wouldn’t mind.

Sam flushes out the wound with the last of the alcohol, and Dean only winces a little bit.

The wince is about the alcohol, though. Not the fact that Cas whimpers.

Honest to god whimpers. Which prompts Dean to ask the question, “Cas, can you actually feel the cuts?”

“To some degree,” ground out between clenched teeth, is the only response he gets.

“There,” Sam says triumphantly, cutting the last of the thread, and sitting back to observe his work.

Dean has to almost bite his tongue in half to keep from laughing at how funny Cas looks with his dark hair sticking up around the bandage that Sammy wrapped around his head.

“You can laugh, if you want,” a gruff, tired voice says, and, instead of laughing, Dean proceeds to choke on his own spit.

Once he has recovered from his coughing fit, Deans pouts, “I wasn't going to laugh.”

Sam only shakes his head before saying, “you guys can fuck it out. If you want. Just remember that we're all sharing the bed tonight.”

Feeling his ears turn red, Dean scoots off the bed and hands the clothes to Cas, saying, “put these on,” before quickly crawling back on to the bed and hiding under the blankets.

He's only hiding because he's blushing. Besides, Sam and him have shared beds practically their whole lives, and Dean is used to Sammy being a fucking seven foot tall octopus.

But, Cas. Sleeping in the same bed as Cas, and not that angels sleep, is a whole nother twist of nerves invading his insides.

Dean Winchester can handle one octopus. But, sleeping, and not sleeping, with two, might kill him.

That, and his shot nerves, the urge to only semi ravage Castiel and his perfect, pink pouty lips, and the alcohol.

The alcohol will surely kill him first.

If the demons that him and his brother hunt don't end up getting him first.

After a few moments of not entirely awkward silence, Sam, too, climbs into the bed, and wriggles deep under the covers.

Now that the two brothers are bedded down for the night, that just leaves Dean's -no, their- angel standing silently by where Dean's head rests on the pillow, rocking from side to side as if he might fall over any second.

Sighing, he stretches his hand out from under the warm nest of blankets, wrapping cut and calloused fingers around Cas's wrist and none too gently pulling him down onto the bed.

When Cas just lays there, not moving, Dean grumbles low in his throat, and scoots backwards, dragging the angel with him.

Moving his long legs out of the way, Dean pushes down the blanket before pulling it back up, and over both of them.

The two of them lay there, until a foot tentatively curls itself around his ankle, moving up to rest in the little crease behind his knee as the owner of said foot rolls onto his back.

Dean's first thought is Sammy, you little shit, and he moves to elbow his brother in the ribs. Then he realizes that the foot, the really fricking cold foot, came from the left side of the bed, not the right.

Looking over at the messy tufts of chocolate brown hair poking out over the edge of the blanket, Dean smiles, eyes twinkling in the dark, and wraps a hand around Castiel's wrist, pulling him close.

But, when he wakes up to the first rays of a fresh, clean, sun filtering through the blinds, the left side of his body is cold.

His hand twisted up in the sheets, Sammy's head resting on his shoulder.

Actually, Sam is sprawled across him. The seven foot tall octopus strikes again.

When he sits up to try and worm his way out from underneath his moose of a brother, Dean realizes that the light coming through the blinds isn't, in fact, sunlight, but light from a lamp right outside their hotel window.

Cursing quietly under his breath, Dean squirms out from under Sam and blearily makes his way to the couch.

Sprawled on the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, is Cas.

Slowing to a tip toe, Dean creeps up behind him, about to pounce when he notices the sound of sniffles wafting up from where the angel is.

Cas turns a tear streaked face to him as he climbs over the couch and lays down, pulling him onto his chest when the slightly taller man goes to slide onto the floor.

“S'matter, Cas?” he asks, running a hand through his hair where his face is hidden in the crook of his collarbone.

The only response it gets is a whimpered, “it hurts, Dean.”

“What hurts?”

Instead of answering, Cas brings Dean hand up and around his back, to a place right in between his shoulder blades, where his wings would be if they were visible.

Mumbling an understanding, Dean buries his face in Cas's hair, fingers rubbing soothing circles into his aching skin.

In the morning -the actual, non artificial morning- Dean wakes up on the couch, a blanket cocooning him from the shoulders down, alone. Cas is, once again, MIA. The fucker.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat that is totally just dryness from sleep, and lack of anything to drink but alcohol, he rolls off the couch, and onto the floor.

More like falls.

He falls off the couch, after trying, and failing, to get out of the blankets, landing with a much louder thump than he had originally first anticipated.

A grumble comes from the direction of the bed, followed by a muffled slap when bare feet hit the floor.

Suddenly, Dean is being scooped up off the floor, and cradled in a scarred up pair of arms.

The pair of arms that were bunched in his shirt when he had first woken up.

Sam only offers a lop sided grin when Dean butts his head into his younger brothers chest, keeping his mouth shut tight for fear that, if he does part his lips, all that's going to come out is a cry for his angel.

His angel, dammit.

Castiel.

His angel of Thursday.

Where is he?

“He left before you woke up,” Sam says, causing a surprised breath to escape Dean's lips, eyes widening when he realizes that he had asked where Cas was out loud.

Sam, rather unceremoniously, dumps Dean on the bed, and then quickly goes about unrolling him from the blankets.

With Dean spread eagle on the bed, the younger Winchester bares his teeth in a grin, turning around, lets himself fall backwards, successfully crushing his brother into the mattress.

Letting out a rather unmanly squeal of surprise, Dean manages to choke down the lump clogging his throat, and push Sam off the bed, chuckling when he frenches the carpet.

He steps down from the bed, dropping to his knees on the floor, and falling over onto his side, curling up against Sam just like he used to do when they were younger.


	5. Chapter 5

Perched in the tree, tie and trench coat hanging over a branch, Castiel watches the Winchesters in their hotel room. To him, the parking lots feels like a million miles separating him from his charges. But, more importantly, his friends.

The breeze that moves through the skeletal limbs of the tree is cold, blowing the untucked tail of his white button down out behind him like a cloud.

Or, a flag. A white flag of surrender, to be exact.

Then, Dean fills up his vision. He has come to a stop in front of the window, pressing his face to the glass and peering out into the night. Distantly, Castiel wonders if he is looking for him, but then quickly dismisses the thought.

He disappears enough that he is sure Dean no longer worries.

But, if he has learned not to worry, then why do his emerald green eyes sparkle with tears when ever he comes back?

Just as Castiel is about to vacate the tree and make his way back to his friends, Dean steps outside, followed closely by Sam, who slides down the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his long arms around them.

Dean sniffles, angrily scrubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, hands going up to pull through his hair.

Castiel can smell the panic wafting off both of the brothers, heart seizing when he realizes that he is the cause of their panic.

But why? he thinks. He is fine. He is okay. He is bleeding. A lot. From a lot of different places.

Dean steps off the sidewalk outside their hotel room, heading for the Impala, most likely to find the closest bar and drink away his feelings. And all the hurt that Castiel has caused.

When the hunter is a mere ten feet away from his car, a bubble of anxiety, panic, and regret bursts inside the angels stomach. Wings ripping through the still tender skin of his back, just below his shoulder blades, Castiel feels a yell of surprise and pain rip forth from his throat as he tumbles from the tree and hits the asphalt with a rather sickening _**splat.**_

Before Castiel can even fully hit the ground, strong, familiar arms are encircling him and pulling him back into a chest that he knows well. A chest, torso, and stomach, that are covered in scars. Though most of them have faded over time, or disappeared completely where Castiel had held Dean when he couldn't sleep.

Beautiful scars. And, if he could properly move, he would run his teeth, lips, and tongue over all the scars.

Castiel's whimper is met with a gentle hand stroking through his hair, while the other hand wraps tightly against both of his. Not even letting go when the angels grip tightens alarmingly around the hunters, and a few splintering cracks abuse both of their ears. Dean Winchester has freckles on his ears, Castiel thinks numbly.

There are freckles on his chest and shoulders, too. Even some on his eyelids. A spattering of fairy kisses across the bridge of his nose.

“It hurts. Dean, it hurts,” Castiel whispers, voice cracked and broken.

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean replies, voice stuttering over the words in a heart breaking way.

Raising his head from where it had been resting on the angels shoulder, Dean yells, “Sammy! We have a situation here! Get your moose ass out here!”

When the angel looks up again, Sam is crouching by both of them, who are huddled on the ground.

He puts his phone back into his jacket pocket just as another wave of pain crashes into Castiel.

Once again, his hand tightens on Dean's. But, this time, instead of a crack, there is the sickening sound of already broken bones grinding against each other.

Dean winces. But, other than that, he doesn't make a sound.

Worry etching lines into his forehead, Sam tries to pull Dean's hand from Castiel's literal bone crushing grip.

But, Dean only flips his off, shoving his hand away and going back to telling Cas that everything is gonna be okay.

Just as Dean is about to call Castiel baby again, and sink further into his self hatred, the ambulance pulls into the parking lot. Sam gets unsteadily to his feet, and goes over to lead the paramedics to where Dean and Cas are.

When one of the paramedics bends down -a pretty little brunette girl that looks way too young to be doing what she's doing- to gently remove Dean from Castiel, the eldest Winchester actually growls at her.

She makes soft cooing noises as he struggles to stand, easing him down onto the ground before she and her partner load Castiel into the ambulance.

Sam goes over to his brother, and, when Dean refuses to -or can't- stand, simply picks him up and carries him to the awaiting vehicle.

Just as they're about to drive away, Dean rasps into Sam's shirt, “his clothes. He's missing half his clothes, Sammy.”

Forcing himself to swallow around the lump in his throat, Sam sets his brother on the seat before jumping out to scoop up the discarded clothing.

When he's barely even sat down again, Dean is climbing onto his lap, curling up into a sad little ball and pulling the blood spattered trench coat over his head.

Sam decides to be a good little brother and ignore Dean's muffled crying and whispering of, “it's my fault.”

When they get to the hospital, Castiel is unconscious, and Dean has finally fallen asleep.

Dried tears make twin tracks down his face, his hands clenched in the fabric of Sam's shirt.

The shirt in question is soaked with snot and tears, and sticking to Sam's skin in a most unpleasant way.

Looking up, he notices that the paramedics, and Cas, are gone. Cursing under his breath, he stumbles to his feet, wrapping shaking arms around his brother. The ripped shirt and tie get tucked under Dean's chin.

He staggers into to waiting room, sitting down heavily on a chair and positioning his brother so that his legs are stretched out across the chairs.

When Sam tries to get up to go get some coffee, Dean whines and curls up in a ball on his lap again, hands going to grab the fabric of his shirt. But, instead of making contact, the fingers of his brothers left hand spasm, and his arm hangs over the edge of Sam's lap. Realizing that Castiel might have broken his brothers hand, Sam curses and mentally curses himself for not noticing earlier before pushing Dean off of his lap and going over to one of the nurses.

“Sammy,” Dean whimpers, curling up into what can only be described as a fetal position at the lack of comfort and contact.

“Hey,” Sam says, stepping in front of the nurse, “my brother got his fingers broken. Could you take a look at them?”

The woman nods, and follows him back over to his brother.

When Sam sits back down, Dean, once again, crawls into his lap. Huffing in something between annoyance and misery, he forces his brother to sit up, wrapping his arms around his waist and cracking a small smile when Dean leans back until he can rest his head on his shoulder.

The nurse is quick to wrap Dean's fingers, while Sam tries to ignore the bruises that his sibling is sure to leave on his arm.

Once she is done, the lady quickly steps back to avoid any more flailing limbs, saying, “if you want, I can show you to your fiance's room.”

“Fiance?” Sam chokes out, “he's not my fiance.”

The lady smiles and gestures to where Dean is still asleep in Sam's lap.

“I know you're not, sweetie. I meant your brother. At least, that's what is says on the forms. They make such a cute couple, don't they?”

Sam only nods, jamming an elbow into his brothers ribs until he groggily sits up, and immediately rolls off Sam's lap onto the floor. Grinding his teeth in frustration, the younger Winchester pulls his brother to his feet, looping an arm around his waist, and following the nurse deeper into the labyrinth of death. AKA, the hospital.

About half an hour later, Dean wakes up. Well, he blinks a few times, swears because of his three broken fingers, and succeeds in elbowing Sam in the balls.

After a few minutes, when Dean is still blinking and mumbling about Castiel and where's Sammy, a nurse comes in with a water bottle, and a little white paper cup with four orange pills inside.

Right then, Sam decides that he now hates the color orange.

When the nurse leaves, Sam squirms out from underneath his older brother, whimpering because of the flash of pain that arcs up into his stomach. Once he's gotten his arms around Dean's chest, he pulls him over to a chair, and plunks him down in it. When the eldest opens his eyes all the way, the youngest drops the pills into his hand, guiding the hand to his slightly parted lips, and then holding the glass of water to his mouth until Dean pushes away Sam's hand.

He leans over the side of the chair, cupping the side of Dean's face in his hand when he turns to Sam with fresh panic blazing in his eyes.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says calmly through gritted teeth, “Cas is okay, he's in the bed right next to you. But, I gotta go get the car. Which means you have to stay here. Can you do that for me?”

After a few moments of his brother not answering, Sam finally looks up from where he was staring intently at the ground, only to notice that Dean has fallen asleep.

The fact that he has leaned into the palm of Sam's hand makes the little brothers heart seize up.

Reluctantly, he pulls away.

Before leaving, Sam pulls off his jacket and flannel, covering Dean with them.

Even though that fact that his brother doesn't protest about being “coddled” sends hot flashes of worry across the forefront of his mind, Sam forces himself to brush it away and leave.


	6. Chapter 6

The walk back to the motel is a lonely one. Cold, too. Though, the coldness that runs through Sam's body is not because of the wind, or a lack of anything warmer than his short sleeve. The cold is already inside him, internally, instead of externally. It has permeated his bones, and turned his organs to frozen, jagged, chunks of ice.

Glaciers floating in his blood.

The cold, the ice, the boiling of his blood amongst it all, is caused by Dean and Castiel.

His family. His brothers. He loves and cares about them more than he knows how to handle.

And, the fact that Castiel might be dying, that Dean is blaming himself for this whole mess, is really throwing him for a loop. A great, big, gut and heart wrenching, loop.

It's making his head spin just thinking about it.

Sam Winchester can handle monsters, demons, ghosts, and every other fucking thing that goes bump in the night. He can handle more than half of his family, extended or not, dying. He can handle -though quite poorly- a year without his brother. He can handle him and Dean dying the reapers only know how many times. Sam can kind of not really handle sharing his grape fruit with Lucifer.

But, what Sam Winchester cannot handle is an angel that might be dying, and an emotionally distraught, possibly alcoholic Dean drowning in his self loathing and hatred.

That, even for him, is just too much.

This is not in the job description! his brain screams, going into overdrive as he opens the door to his and Dean's motel room.

Their things are already packed, albeit rather hastily. It's like they were planning for something bad to happen.

When, really, all they were doing was packing because they had found a new job.

On his way back to the hospital, Sam notices how quiet the Impala is without Dean to play his tapes and make smart alek remarks about almost everything that he says. It's too quiet. And, it's starting to hurt his head.

Cursing under his breath, he digs around through the glove box until he finally unearths a bottle of aspirin.

With no idea how long said bottle has been hidden, Sam Winchester hopes for the best as he dumps the rest of the pills -6, to be exact- into his palm before bringing them to his mouth.

When he arrives at the hospital after what seems like hours upon hours of aimless driving, Sam's thoughts, along with the inside of his skull, are pleasantly fuzzy. He hardly notices the silence as he parks, grabs his and Dean's bags, and heads back into the hospital. People, some nurses, some patients or family members, stare at him as he trudges down the hall, half-dragging the two duffel bags behind him.

His only response is a lazy smirk and an occasionally muttered curse word when their eyes narrow into angry glares.

The hallway seems to stretch on forever, the stairs seem endless. His surroundings are like something from a nightmare. He's too warm, yet cold at the same time.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths that are far from anything considered calming, Sam elbows the door to Castiel's room open, and pretty much falls inside.

“Nice of you to drop in,” Dean says by way of greeting where he's slumped against the wall by the angels bed, fingers clenched in the feathers of the wing that isn't bandaged to Castiel's back.

Sam doesn't say anything in response, just dumps the duffel bags by the door, and goes over to his brother. Sliding down the wall to sit next to him, he inquires, “Dean, why aren't you in the chair? The floor can't be that comfortable.”

When he gets no answer, followed by a familiar weight on his shoulder, Sam looks down at Dean and realizes that he is being used as a pillow.

Grumbling soon turns to a stream of harshly whispered curse words when he notices the little red dot on the back of Dean's hand. Not track marks, thank god. But, to the Winchester's, not much better.

Just as Sam is about to risk waking his brother and going to find a nurse, a perky little blond thing walks into the room. Looking down at the two brothers on the floor, she says, in response to Sam's widened eyes, “we had to sedate him. He woke up while you were still gone, and kind of freaked out. We didn't want him to hurt himself.”

Sam nods his head in gratitude, pulling Castiel's trench coat up around his brothers shoulders from where it was laying on the floor. There's dried blood on it. Most likely a little bit of all of theirs. At least it's not just Castiel's blood.

Just as his breathing is slipping back into a normal, steady rhythm, the nurse flicks on the overhead lights and goes over to check on the unconscious angel.

Castiel, bless his selflessness, looks like he's been put through the wringer more than a dozen times.

His face is a mess of cuts and bruises, bandages wrapped around his forehead covering a large gash, making his hair stick up like an electric halo.

The irony of that makes Sam feel like throwing something.

The rest of him isn't much better, though it isn't much worse, either. And, yeah, that is sort of comforting.

What really scares him, because it proves just how much in bad shape Castiel is, are the machines surrounding their friend. That, and the tubes running in out of his body, the heart monitors steady beeping, the spikes rising and falling quickly.

It's all too much, and if Sam desperately needs a drink or five, he can hardly imagine how Dean must feel.

As the nurse is about to leave, he manages to pull his tongue away from where it was stuck to the back of his teeth and ask, “miss, why aren't we surrounded by the FBI? I mean, it can't be every day that an angel is brought into the local hospital.”

In response, the nurse parts her lips in a wide smile that takes up more than half her face.

Hidden by her pretty pink lips and dimpled cheeks, is a mouthful of tiny, needle-sharp fangs.

Before he becomes fully aware of what he is asking, Sam hears himself saying, “why haven't you attacked any of us yet?”

The girl grins, showing off her fangs once more, before replying, “You Winchesters have tainted blood. As for your brothers boyfriend, he smells too much like both of you for me to want to get near his neck.”

When she reaches the door, Sam says, rather snarkily, “fiance, actually. The angel is my brothers fiance.”

The only response that he gets is another pointy smile before she flits out into the hall and the door closes behind her.

Sighing, he slumps down against the wall, pulling the tattered trench coat more firmly around his older brothers shoulders, rubbing absent fingers through Dean's hair in soothing circles when he whimpers in his sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

What feels like the middle of the night, Dean rolls over, expecting to find the comfort of his brothers arms encircling him, but, instead, bangs his nose against an unfamiliar wall.

Groaning, he rubs his nose, curling up into a ball and pulling his love's Castiel's trench coat up more firmly around himself.

Sam's voice floating over to him in the darkness sends a sudden jolt of surprise arcing up and down his spine.

Not only because the voice sounds disembodied, but, because his voice is accompanied by a second voice that he doesn't recognize. A voice that he is pretty sure he had heard earlier in the day, but, he can't be certain.

A female voice.

“His arm, it was broken, right?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair.

When there is only silence for a few seconds, Dean guesses that she must have nodded.

“But now it isn't?”

Another brief patch of silence, another nod.

“How?”

“Now you've struck the million dollar question, Winchessssster,” she hisses.

“You see,” she continues, “your feathery little friend over there is an angel. I'm willing to bet you already know that. Now, they heal incredibly quickly. We were going to plaster his arm, but, when we went to, it had healed to just a minor fracture. So, we wrapped it in bandages, and called it good.”

Another brief silence, and Dean can practically _hear_ Sam tearing the skin off around his fingernails.

If he were a good big brother, he would get up, kick the girl out, and then force gigantor over there to cuddle with him.

But, since he is tired, and pretty sure that his nose is bleeding, he stays silent, listening to the rest of the conversation with teeth on edge, and the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“Then why...why has Cas not woken up yet? He's not in a coma, is he?” Sam stutters, followed by the sound of him clapping his hands over his mouth in shock.

A high pitched little giggle fills the air for an unnecessary amount of time, making both of the brothers cringe.

Finally, she replies, “though it may look like tall, dark, and nearly dead is in a coma, no, he is not. I've done some pretty extensive research on angels, and, when they are severely injured, their bodies shut down so that they can heal. The only reason why brothers angel hasn't woken up yet is because of the damage that was done to his vessel.”

When another silence settles over the hospital room, Dean considers jumping up and ganking the dirty blood sucker where she stands. But, that would mean alerting them to his consciousness. And that could be awkward. For all of them.

So, he settles for massaging the bridge of his nose, picking the clotted blood off of his face.

When the quiet of the room is about to drive him up the wall, welcome footsteps cross the room and stop at the door.

Before the door closes, a sneering voice giggles, “if your brother doesn't marry that angel, then I will.”

After he is sure that the she-devil has left the room, Dean uncurls himself, stretching out his body and reveling in the pops and cracks that fill the room.

A snort pulls his eyes from a bruise on his arm that he didn't remember getting. Looking down, he starts at a familiar pair of Puma's, to seemingly endless jean clad legs, before his eyes land on the smirking face of Sam.

“S'funny?” he asks, arms crossed tightly over his chest. As if that simple gesture will hide the erratic beating of his heart.

“Your angel,” Sam says, clearly pleased with himself for noticing the blush creeping up Dean's neck and into his cheeks.

“Whether you like it or not, Castiel is your angel. And your are his human. The angel and his righteous man. It's quite romantic. Also, you suck at pretending to be asleep.”

In response, Dean flips Sam off. The younger Winchester only laughs, and walks over to sit by Castiel's bed.

Because, really, that's pretty much the only way that Dean can keep his composure. By telling himself that Castiel is just in a bed. Not a hospital bed. Just a bed. Like, at one of the shitty motels that they stay at. Or, the house where they were squatting. If he's just in a regular bed, that means that he's only sleeping. He isn't in a not coma. He isn't hurt. And, none of it is Dean's fault. He won't have to live with the fact that, once again, he failed to protect someone that he cares about. Someone that he loves. His family.

Once he is sure that Sammy has fallen asleep, Dean stands up and wobbles over to where he is slumped over on legs that feel like they're made of jello. Not wanting to risk waking up his younger brother and being put back to bed in the lumpy friggen chair, he goes over to the other side of the bed.

Then, instead of sitting down, he just stand there. Staring down at Castiel's back, wondering if his ribs feel like they're being crushed after laying on his stomach for so long.

Dean wishes that he could roll his friend over. Just so that he can see his face. Run trembling fingers over soft lips, and the stubble that is sure to be there. He wants to feel his eyes moving around underneath their coverings of skin, and try to imagine what angels dream about. He wants to know if angels are even capable of dreaming, since, technically, they don't sleep. Or, can't sleep. Then, if his angel is incapable of sleep, why hasn't Castiel woken up yet, dammit?

Scooting closer to the bed, Dean slowly and carefully snakes his hand up the side of the bed, and over the blankets, until his fingers are bunched together in Castiel's feathers.

“Come on, Cas,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I need you. Sammy needs you. You can't give up now. You gotta pull your feathery ass through this because I can't do this alone.”

And then, with a handful of feathers, Dean Winchester, the young man that drinks away his problems, Dean Winchester, he begins to cry.

He cries silently, knees drawn up to his chest, allowing the darkness of the hospital room to hide his sadness.

The stars, stuck outside the window, and the sky, trying to draw Castiel back into its soft clutches, all bang against the glass. Trying to get in, and fix what is broken inside all of them.

But, that's what Castiel was, for Dean. He was his sky, his moon, and his stars. Hell, he _is_ all of those things. He will continue to be. Because, Castiel and Sammy are the duct tape keeping his pathetic, alcoholic self, together.


	8. Chapter 8

On what must be either the forth or the fifth night in the hospital, Dean is woken up by heavy foot steps in the room. When the foot steps stop right outside the door, he slumps back down against the wall, and, once again, threads his fingers through Castiel's. The angels hands are cold. Instead of the familiar warmth that Dean has gotten so used to radiating off the young man in waves, there is an almost unbearable cold filling the room.

After he can bear the feeling of his friends cold skin no longer, he stands up in preparation to ransack the room for blankets. Once he is standing on shaky legs, he takes a step forward, and runs right into someone. A someone that he doesn't know.

Stumbling back a few steps, he looks up at the hulking figure dressed in pale blue scrubs, and just manages to duck when the stranger throws a punch at the side of his face.

Cursing, he jumps to his feet, ready to take on the attacker, eyes widening when he finds no one there. Looking around the room wildly, he finally lands on the figure leaning over Castiel, wickedly sharp knife gleaming in his hand.

Surprising himself by actually _growling_ -a terrible sound caught low in his throat- Dean throws himself at the man, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

The tip of the knife catches his side when they hit the tiled floor, the sensation of ripping fabric and skin squeezing a short gasp of pain from Dean's lips. This, he chooses to ignore, smashing the back of the enemies head into the floor. Straddling Castiel's would be assassin, the eldest Winchester wrestles the knife from limp fingers before he plunges the knife into the mans chest.

In the blinding white light that suddenly fills the room, Dean, sweat and blood running down his body, chest heaving, Dean notices that the knife he is holding is in, actuality, an angel blade.

Looking down at the charred remains of wings tattooed onto the floor, he immediately jumps to his feet again, knife brandished at the new figure coming in through the open door.

“Dean,” the young man says, flipping on the lights and stepping into the room. “What the hell happened?”

When the question is asked a second, and then a third time, followed by a, “holy shit, you're bleeding!” Dean finally realizes that this person is not another threat, but Sammy.

But, the rush of calm soon turns into a wave of anger because Sammy left him alone. He left Dean and Castiel alone, to go and get coffee. His inconvenient little caffeine addiction could have gotten them all killed!

Suddenly, he turns on Sam, jumping at him and pulling him into the room by the collar of his shirt.

Sam chokes, gasping for air as the door slams shut behind them. Then, before he can even move to push him off, Dean has shoved him into the wall, and is attacking him.

As the sting of his brothers fists against his face and chest bring spots of black to the corners of his vision, Sam briefly wonders why this is happening. And, not just why Dean is beating the ever loving snot out of him, but why Castiel is in the hospital, why his idiot brother fell in love with an angel, and why his brother is bleeding. Still.

Before he has a chance to ask any of these questions, his eye that isn't swollen shut lands on a pair of wings burnt into the tile floor. Of course, he thinks. An angel tried to kill Dean's angel, which Dean killed, and he is now mad at me because I was out getting him coffee when I should have been here to help.

Stupid stupid stupid, he internally mumbles at himself.

Suddenly, all 6'4 of Sam is crashing to the ground, the skin of his knees splitting open instantly upon impact and painting the floor in front of, and around him, a bright red.

Right as he is trying to catch what little breath that had yet to be knocked out of him, Dean is, once again, upon him.

After what feels like hours, Sam is no longer able to feel the blows. The sting of his older brothers fists has dulled to an almost bothersome itch.

When he can no longer ignore the spots crowding around the corners of his vision, Sam reaches up to cup the side of his brothers face. He gently wipes away the tears flowing from Dean's eyes with the pad of his thumb.

Dean leans into the touch, nuzzling into Sam's palm.

“It's okay, Dean. I'm right here,” Sam whispers. “I'm not going anywhere.”

When morning rolls around, what wakes the younger Winchester is not the sun, since the blinds are drawn over the windows, but the fact that he hurts.

Everywhere. At least, everywhere on his upper body.

What makes him jerk upright in such a violent way that his spine cracking along its length, is the blood filling the back of his throat. Gagging and choking, he coughs up the blood onto the floor.

Once he's regained his breath, he goes to slump back against the wall. But, a calloused, battle scarred hand cups his cheek, forcing him to stay at least partially vertical.

“Hey there, Sammy,” Dean says in a ragged, exhausted voice.

Sam forces himself to sit up the rest of the way, ignoring the protesting creaks and jerks from his ribs, draws back, and punches Dean in the mouth.

Well, at least he does in his head.

Instead, he slumps forward until his face is hidden in his older brother's blood stained, sweat soaked tee shirt.

Wrapping strong arms around Sam's waist, Dean pulls him to his feet, and drags him into the bathroom.

Neither of them talk as Dean cleans him up. But, when a glass of water gets pushed against his lips, Sam only drinks the water to spit it out at his brother.

The eldest Winchester chuckles in response, wiping the water from his face.

“I can't say I didn't deserve that,” Dean says apologetically, when they're both sitting on the floor by Castiel's bed.

“I really messed you up.”

Sam only nods in response, not trusting himself to be able to speak without yelling profanities.

After what must have been an hour of sitting side by side in silence, Dean finally says, “if you wanna hit me, Sammy, you can. And, don't hold back.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Sam replies, “I'm not going to hit you, Dean. You're already hurting yourself more than I ever could.”

Dean surprises himself by not immediately having a witty retort or comeback.


	9. Chapter 9

For a majority of the morning, and late into the afternoon, Dean cleans Sam up.

Sam sits on the edge of the bathtub in the bathroom, with the door open so that both of them can keep an eye on Castiel. The brothers don't speak while the eldest gently rubs away the blood from the younger's face.

Sam only flinches, when Dean begins to wipe away the blood clotted on, and around, his swollen, and blackened, eye.

He sits patiently on the side of the bathtub, tentatively poking at the sore patches on his chest, while Dean goes to find bandages. The guilt hanging over him as he leaves the room is practically visible as a hulking black cloud weighing down on his shoulders.

Sam heaves a sigh, carding trembling fingers through his hair, making it stand up on end.

Just as he is beginning to doze off, shaking hands and cool fingertips pulling his shirt over his head wake him up. Cracking an eye open when the cottony scratchiness of the bandages connect with his skin, he looks up into Dean's eyes, choosing to ignore how their usual candy apple green color has been dulled.

They don't speak, except for the occasional hiss of pain from the younger Winchester, as Dean wraps the length of bandage around his rib cage. The silence is almost suffocating. They both know it. They both can feel it. But, only one of them thinks that he deserves it. Causing his little brother, who he was always told to look after, so much pain, has become another thing that pulls him deeper into the clutches of despair.

After Sam's chest is encased in what Dean deems to be the right amount of white, he leaves. Well, not altogether. However, Dean does leave the bathroom.

Sam stares after him, watching as he stalks out of the hospital room. But, not before he smashes his fist into the wall.

He sighs, slipping down until the bare skin of his back is pressed flush against the cold side of the bathtub.

His heads hurts. Hell, everything hurts.

Dean stalks down the hall of the hospital, nursing his throbbing hand, and cursing his stupidity. And, about everything else about himself. He doesn't know how to handle this. Any of this massive, bubbling cauldron of bullshit that has become his life. Castiel -whom everybody seems to think is his angel- is all laid up, not to mention unconscious, and Sammy, who he was constantly told to protect, is in pain.

Because of him. He has managed to hurt the two people that he cares about most in this crap stick of a world.

The only thing that Dean can think of that might help, is to go out and get drunk out of his mind. But, that wouldn't be fair to Cas, or Sam. Cursing aloud, he is about to go and hide out in the Impala until he calm down, when he sees a door.

A door that is marked, ROOF ACCESS, in bright, glaring red letters. Smiling the grimace of a convicted man, Dean slips into the stairwell, letting the large door snick shut behind him. Finding himself in complete darkness, he allows himself to sag against the wall, dropping his head into his hands. Every curse word that he knows, most of them learned by listening to his father when he wasn't out on a hunt, whirls through his head. Behind closed eyelids, the world comes crashing down.

After two hours of Dean not coming back, Sam starts to worry. He wants to go and look for his brother. He really does. But, the risk of something happening to Castiel while he's gone, and putting even more stress on all of those involved, keeps him rooted to the floor.

At first, Sam paces. He walks back and forth at the foot of Castiel's hospital bed. Sam only stops his movements when a few nurses -the blood sucker not among them, thank god- crowd into the room and gently roll his brother's angel over on to his back. The only response that they get for the disturbance, is a little wing twitch, followed by a whimper.

He wants to tell them to roll him back over, he really does. But, even though Sam Winchester may be able to stitch up a wound, and keep Dean from dying of alcohol poisoning, he is no doctor. If the nurses think that Castiel's wing is healed enough to be underneath him, then, they must be right. At least, he hopes that they are.

After all, what's the use of an angel, if he can't even fly?

When the nurses leave, Sam finally relents, and sits down on the floor by the angels bed. The floor is hard, and rather cold. Feeling the absence of heat creeping through his pants, oozing over his thighs, and down his knees, he shivers. But, this means that he will stay awake until Dean gets back. Since he can't go after his brother, the least he can do is wait up for him.


	10. Chapter 10

After the three hour mark has gone past, Dean wanders down off the roof, and out to his car.

His baby is a beauty, anybody can see that. And, she's all his. The paint, black as Castiel's wings, glistens in the beginning darkness of night. He slumps over to the Impala, and climbs into the drivers seat.

Dean slumps down in the seat, knees pressed up against the steering wheel. The interior of the car smells like booze and blood, a normally comforting scent that now makes his nose wrinkle up in disgust. But, underneath of all of that, is a different, a new, smell. One that he has had the pleasure to get intoxicated off of only a select few times. Honey is the top layer, followed by a sharper, more intense flavor that resembles trodden dirt and tree bark, and, finishing off the mix, wet side walks after a heavy rain.

More than anything though, the smell is filled with a name. One word. Three letters when shortened down to a nickname. “Cas,” Dean murmurs into the darkness of his car, surrounded by an even darker night. Then, he says it again, only, this time, louder. “Cas!”

The sound of his own ragged voice bounces back at him, bringing tears to his eyes. But, no, they can't be tears. Dean Winchester does not cry. It's hard to cry when you're basically dead inside. Even so, he can't deny the twin trails of water sliding down his cheeks.

Sighing, Dean furiously scrubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is too old to blubber like this. But, then again, he begrudgingly admits, he always has been a little bit of an easy crier. His leg twitches against the steering wheel, begging to get out of the car. He wants to, he needs to, run. Far far away from all this bull shit.

Right now, in this space and time, Sammy and Cas are the only two things keeping him tethered. Without them, he would drink himself to death in a heartbeat. Who would scrape him up off the floor when he's too drunk to stand? Dammit, he's supposed to be the protector of those two. Even though Cas can mojo himself back to 100%, he still needs someone to lean on from time to time.

“Stupid angel, stupid Sammy, stupid stupid stupid,” he growls. Then, when he's about to give in to the clutches of his own despair, he remembers the emergency bottle of JD that he keeps under the front seat. Leaning forward, even as bile rises in his throat, Dean frantically scrabbles under the seat. When the cold sweats are just beginning to creep up his spine, his shaking fingers close around the familiar neck of a bottle. Sweet sweet alcohol, his veins sing, begging him to turn his blood stream into pure amber gold.

The first sip, where it should be bitter, is almost like drinking water. Granted, slightly filthy water, but water just the same. Huffing in annoyance, he takes another pull on the bottle. When the JD is almost gone, and he doesn't yet feel even a slight buzz, he wonders if Sammy was right when he inquired as to whether he could even still get drunk. That didn't really sting that bad, because it was a valid question. Yet, the part about alcohol being like a vitamin for him did make his stomach curl.

After a few more minutes, hours, or days, Dean starts to feel blessedly fuzzy. What he notices, though, even through through the sudden haze, is that he isn't numb. He can still feel enough to be painfully aware of the claws that anxiety has planted in his belly. Sighing, he once again twists the cap off the bottle, and proceeds to drown in a sea of gold. Amber and gold amber and gold pull me down into amber and gold.


	11. Chapter 11

With a start, Sam wakes up on the floor, stretching out to his full height from the ball that he was curled into. Looking around Castiel's small hospital room, he realizes, with a sickening drop in his stomach, what woke him up.

Dean is back, from wherever he went. But, it's the fact that he's holding his gun to his head. Finger poised just above the trigger, he sighs, hands dropping back into his lap, the gun to the floor.

Years later, when asked if he had ever been actively suicidal by the therapist that he finally went to, he answered no. Even though, anybody that had met Dean Winchester, or, been killed by him, could attest to the fact that that boy, that damned Winchester, has a death wish. Whether it be self inflicted or otherwise, it was obvious that he aimed to die with a gun in his hands. Which didn't mean that he hadn't considered being an organ donor in the event of his demise. But, the fact that his kidneys and liver were probably already destroyed from all the drinking, he thought better of it. Better that, when his time really does come, every last part of him goes.

Sam jerks upright, ready to launch himself at his brother. But, there really isn't anything that he can do, short of getting into a fist fight with his brother. Which, he really doesn't want to do. Dean already hurts himself enough without anyone else helping him along. So, Sam scoots along the wall until he is sitting side to side with the eldest Winchester.

Carefully, Sam reaches out a trembling hand to move the gun back into the duffel bag. Dean doesn't say anything, just leans over until his head is resting on Sam's shoulder, eyes fixed on Castiel's bed. The angel looks better. Most, almost all, of the bruises have faded. His wing is healing.

“You smell,” he says softly, ducking the slap and chuckling in spite of himself. “When your fiance wakes up, we won't want him having to deal with you smelling like a sewer.”

Dean doesn't say anything, just allows Sam to pull him upright and lead him into the bathroom. Both of them silently agreeing to ignore the blood spattering the bathtub in little drops, Sam turns on the water. Steam fills the small room, fogging the mirror and the singular window.

Ever the polite little brother, Sam goes and sits over by the toilet, back against the wall, to give his brother privacy. Dean just stands there, for more than a few minutes, staring down at the water. Steam curls off the surface in menacing tendrils. With his stomach somewhere down near his feet, still fully clothed, he steps into the water.

At first, there is cold, as his clothing is quickly soaked through. But, then, there is warmth. Sighing, he brings his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, and resting his head on top. He hurts. And he wishes that, instead of Sam sitting in the bathroom with him, it were Castiel, his angel, accompanying him in this ordeal.

More than half an hour later, or, what feels like that, Sam finally asks, “Dean, you okay?”

Jerking upright from where he was curled, he replies snidely, “now, what would ever make you ask that?”

Sam replies, with absolutely no hint of irony in his quiet voice, “well, Dean, you've been sitting in the bathtub, with your clothes on, for more than fifteen minutes.”

“And how would you know how long it's been, Einstein?”

“I counted.”

Both the brothers know that that short exchange, the few sentences, is the most that they've said to each other since Cas was checked into the hospital. The thought is rather saddening to them both. Not, however, that they would show it, emotionally stunted as they both are. Really, though, it's not there fault. Having a triple A father like John Winchester would not make one too keen to express their feelings in front of others.

Dean knows better than to argue when Sam drags him to his feet, then turns away so that his brother can at least take off his pants in shirt with some pretense of privacy. On legs that feel more like jelly than flesh and bone, Dean sits back down in the water. Honestly, he thinks about curling up into a ball again, but, the look on Sammy's face tells him that's only going to result in both of them ending up soaked. So, he complies, moving around in the luke-warm water so that his back is pressed up against the edge. Sam doesn't thank him, but, honestly, Dean doesn't feel like he deserves to be thanked, anyway.

His brothers hair is greasy. So greasy that, the first time Sam rubs in the shampoo, it won't stick. Not that this is exactly surprising, to either of them. The brothers both know that once Dean gets into a funk, hygiene is the first to go. Which means that he rocks the grease, the scruff, and binge drinking until what ever shit that happened goes away. Not that any of this actually helps, it's just Dean's way of coping.

Once his hair is all good and shampooed, Sam says gently, “Dean, cover your eyes. Don't wanna get shampoo in them.”

After he has complied, Sam scoops up handfuls of water and scrubs away the shampoo from his brothers hair.

Pathetic little suds fill the bathtub, and the water's gone cold. Handing Dean a towel, Sam leaves the small bathroom, finally awarding his brother with the privacy that he doesn't deserve.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam falls asleep first, curled up in the chair, arms wrapped tightly around Dean's jacket. Early in the morning, he half hears the fight between his brother and the nurse. The poor lady had finally come in and tried to take Castiel's trench coat to get it dry cleaned. And, predictably, Dean had fought her tooth and nail about it. It ended with her backing out of the room, with him yelling, “I said leave the fucking jacket!!”

Dean goes into the bathroom, thankful for the silence filling the adjacent room. Nothing but the beep of the heart monitor, coupled with Sammy and Cas's breathing. The deep breathing of sleep. Calm, cool, and collected. Everything that the eldest Winchester is not as he carefully scrubs the blood from the jacket. After he is done, and the water filling the bathtub is pink and not tinged with tears, he hangs up the trench coat and leaves the bathroom.

Standing right in the doorway to the room, he looks at Sammy, comically squeezed into the chair, all knees and elbows. Sammy's a good kid. Dean didn't want this life for his brother. Hell, if he knew any other life, he wouldn't want this one for himself, either. But, it's the only concrete thing that has never changed his whole life.

He considers waking Sammy up, apologizing about the gun earlier. Apologizing for the fact that he's still a little bit drunk. Apologizing for _getting_ drunk in the first place. But, instead, he lets his brother sleep. At least one of them should get in their customary four hours.

Sighing, he goes and sits on the ground by Cas's bed. Slumping over until his head rests on the side of the mattress, he runs shaking fingers through the wing that drapes over the bed and onto the floor. The feathers are crusted with a little bit of blood, all matted together from when his angel fell onto the parking lot. Dean does his best to smooth down as many feathers as he can without out somehow awakening the angel. Their softness draws a sigh from somewhere deep inside his belly.

Cursing his never ending weakness -at least he's consistent- Dean crawls onto the bed. Stretching out next to Cas, while still managing to take up as little room and not fall off the bed as he can, he relaxes for the first time in weeks. Even though the angel, his angel, is not awake, he's okay. He's all healed up, save for a few cuts and bruises. He is warm, alive, breathing, and right next to him where Dean likes Castiel the most.

With Sammy asleep in the chair, and Cas on the mend, Dean falls asleep. During the night, he manages to get closer and closer to the unconscious young man. Finally, they're so close together that their hands are touching. Dean absently brushes his fingers through Cas's hair, marveling over how soft it has managed to stay, despite not being washed for quite a while. “Fuckin' mojo,” he says to the darkened room.

Dean only wakes up one more time that night. Only, unlike his other early morning awakenings, this is nothing bad. What wakes him is the softest brush of constantly chapped lips against his own. Opening his eyes to find Cas, awake and well, leaning over him with his wings draped over both of them, he smiles into the kiss.

“Morning, Cas,” he whispers.

“Morning, Dean,” his angel replies.


End file.
